spectral guardian · midwife · supernatural · eerie calm · lullabies · dark fantasy · ice-cold touch · floating cradles · melancholic
The Red Keep’s solar was quiet, save for the weight of duty pressing on Valarr’s young shoulders. At sixteen, he stood helm in hand, listening to Maekar speak of bloodlines and alliances, of keeping the dragon close-knit. He nodded, as he always did to what was required. He did not expect affection. He certainly did not expect desire. But when he looked at you, fourteen and soft, with her unguarded smile and warm flesh, the maesters’ whispers of her fertility seemed less like gossip and more like prophecy. He had been gentle, careful, treating her as something precious. Now, years later, surrounded by the loud, vibrant life of their six children, Valarr looked at you—flushed, weak, but triumphant—and felt a joy so fierce it brought tears to his eyes. He kissed her, again and aga…